


We're All a Little Crazy

by Zafer_Aistra



Series: We're Trying to Make it Work [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Crack, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash, Smut, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zafer_Aistra/pseuds/Zafer_Aistra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames and Arthur want to have sex, Ariadne wants Dom, Yusuf wants to be a chef, and Cobb is just oblivious. Sequel to The Exploits of a Forger and a Point Man, but can be read alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're All a Little Crazy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: None of the character of Inception belong to me. Nolan has those rights.

The first time Arthur and Eames have sex doesn't really count, according to both Arthur and Eames. They're drunk off their asses and wallowing after a job that drags on longer than necessary.  
  


This is no thanks to Ariadne (the job, not the sex, or lack thereof). The problem starts when Arthur is giving her directions to a meeting place inside the dream and she's not-so-subtly looking off in the distance.  
  


"Is there something behind me?" Arthur asks with a frown on his face.  
  


"Kiss me," Ariadne orders, still gazing over his shoulder. "We could take the world by storm. He'd _never_ forgive himself for not getting a piece of this," she says dreamily.  
  


" _A piece_ —?" Arthur turns around only to see Dom attempting to kill a projection of a Bengal tiger with a spork (and while he's obviously losing, Arthur gives him mental props for trying with limited resources). He looks back at Ari. Then at Dom, who is squinting at the unharmed tiger. His arm's missing and it's obvious he gave up on the utensil attack and now appears to be attempting mind control with his trademark squint.  
  


" _Yeah_ ," Ariadne coos. "Those _eyes_. Arthur, he makes getting _mauled_ look sexy. Just _look_ at those _bedroom_ eyes!"  
  


Arthur does not look. He never wants to associate bedroom eyes with getting mauled _or_ Dom's unnatural squint. He tells himself that if he doesn't look, then it doesn't count. (It _does_ , he learns later. After the job, he finds he can't look at Dom in fear of seeing his bedroom (NORMAL _, GODDAMNIT_ ) eyes and trying to figure out if they made Mal uncomfortable or not during sex.)  
  


But, we digress.  
  


The first time _it_ happens, it's awkward and they fumble a lot and they're so drunk they forget it the next day.  
  


"Did we have sex?" Arthur asks the next day, lying in bed next to Eames. And Eames, wrapped tightly in the blankets, startles and promptly falls off the edge.  
  


"Shit," he groans. Arthur continues looking at the area where Eames used to be.  
  


"Did we?" he repeats.  
  


"Are your pants on?" Eames voice floats up from the floor.  
  


Arthur gazes down his body. "Kind of." One pant leg is completely off his body, and the other wrinkled and creased around his calf. His boxers are dangerously low on his hips. "Kind of," he repeats.  
  


"Kind of?"  
  


"Did we have sex?" Arthur asks again, because dammit he wants an answer. Right after he throws up, of course.  
  


He stumbles to the bathroom and barely manages to get his head in the general vicinity of the toilet before he's puking up everything from the night before.  
  


He hears a faint retching sound and Eames enters behind him. "That sure makes me feel better about myself to see you throwing up after thinking about sex with me. Good job boosting my self-esteem."  
  


Arthur gags on the taste in his mouth. "You don't need _me_ to boost your ego. You do that well enough on your own. And why aren't _you_ sick? Don't tell me the English have some built in tolerance to hangovers."  
  


"I might've already completed that task back in the hallway," Eames admits sheepishly.  
  


"You're disgusting."  
  


"Um, Arthur?"  
  


"Hm?"  
  


"I think we might've had sex."  
  


"You _think?_ "  
  


"Well," Eames points to the garbage can, where a tied off and obviously used condom is resting on top of a pile of tissues. "Either we had sex, or we have strange jerk-off methods when we're plastered." He kneels behind Arthur and places his hands on his ass.  
  


"What the hell are you doing?" Arthur glares.  
  


"I'm…checking you," Eames confesses, pulling down the point man's underwear. "I'm supposed to after sex, aren't I? To make sure you're okay and that nothing _tore_ …"  
  


Arthur slaps his hand. " _Don't_ touch my ass. Why do you think I'm the one who bottomed?"  
  


"You're obviously a catcher."  
  


"Don't touch my ass," Arthur tells him again, flushing the toilet. "Or else I'll jam my gun up _yours_ and fire it off, and no, my gun is not a euphemism for my penis."  
  


Eames releases him immediately. He's learned the hard way that Arthur always made good on his threats. And sometimes more so.  
  


"So you're saying that you'd be on top?" Eames questions, still nonchalantly checking for blood stains on Arthur's underwear, from a distance, of course. "Darling, the only time _you'd_ be on top would be if you're riding my dick, which I think would be a wonderful way to end this conversation."  
  


"Eames, I am feeling absolutely no pleasure with that idea. I just spent the last ten minutes throwing up my soul, my suit is ruined, and I can't remember anything from last night. _Sex_ is the last thing on my mind."  
  


"You look pretty hot bent over like that. If I didn't know you were sick, I'd want to fuck you again."  
  


"That shouldn't even count!" Arthur argues. "I mean, I always thought it was a cliché, but the first time should be _special_ , you know? And the fact that _neither_ of us can remember and are now arguing about who topped, which really doesn't matter, honestly, but _Christ_. Can we just drop it? I feel bad enough without knowing my first."  
  


He groans, and dry heaves into the toilet.  
  


"I think," Eames starts, trying to quell his own rising nausea.  
  


"No. You don't think. You just do. Can we please just drop this and go on with our lives?"  
  


Eames looks offended. "I was going to say, before you so rudely interrupted, that I think we should just forget about this. We've already determined that we like each other, so this shouldn't be as awkward as we're making it. I agree with you. A first _should_ be special, and memorable. What we're getting out of this is a story that we'll probably never tell anyone, but it's nothing distinctive."  
  


"So," Arthur begins, "we'll forget about this. No one will know, and we'll push it into the back of our minds."  
  


"Yes. Under the label: that one time we had sex, while we totally didn't have sex."  
  


"Perfect. Shake on it?"  
  


Eames holds out his hand. Arthur grasps it and they shake.  
  


Right after Eames releases all the toxins from the previous night into the sink, of course.

* * *

The first (second) time they have (attempt) sex, it's just as awkward and uncomfortable as the forgotten time.  
  


Except this time they're both sober enough to remember.  
  


From the kissing ("I've never kissed someone who slobbered as much as you, Arthur." "Shut the fuck up Eames. You'd be fine with it if I were sucking your dick." "Well, why aren't you?") to the fondling ("Loosen your grip, Eames. Like, shit, yeah like that.") to the dirty talk ("You like that?" "Of course I like it, shut up and fuck me. Jesus.") and finally to the sex itself.  
  


Shirts are taken off, pants are thrown aside, underwear pulled down, and bodies thrown haphazardly on a bed together.  
  


"God, Eames move, please."  
  


Eames grunts. "You aren't complaining, _ah_ , now? I thought that— _fuck_ —that you weren't a bottom."  
  


" _Christ_ , would you stop talking and _fuck_ _me_ , Eames?" Arthur drags his hips down over Eames', drawing a low moan from both men. " _Please_."  
  


"God, got you _begging_ for my cock, don't I, _darling_?" Eames runs his hands down the point man's back, feeling the muscles quiver and clench underneath his touch.  
  


"I wouldn't have to beg if you'd put it in me," Arthur grinds out. "Don't make me beg."  
  


"You want it, _don't_ you? _Fuck_ , Arthur."  
  


"I swear to _God_ Eames, if you taunt me one more time I'll rip it off and hang it in my room as a keepsake and I'll _never_ need your sorry ass for sex, again," Arthur spits out.

  
And, sadly, with the prospect of unwanted dick removal, Eames softens a bit. He pushes Arthur off him. "Shit. This isn't working."

  
Arthur stares at the ceiling. "No shit. It's hard to have sex when one of us is flaccid," he said drily.

  
"I wouldn't be _flaccid_ if you'd stop threatening me."

  
"I wouldn't have to _threaten_ you if you didn't taunt me."

  
"I don't like threats, _especially_ from you."

  
"I don't like derision, especially _from you_."

  
Eames groans and pulls his pants from the pile at the foot of the bed. He throws another pair at Arthur, silently hoping they hit him in the face.

  
They do.

  
Eames does a small victory air punch in his mind.

  
And in real life.

 

"You're a dick," Arthur tells him.

  
"It appears that neither of us is getting any tonight. Want a beer?"

  
"I _want_ sex."

  
"I could suck you off," Eames offers.  
  


"You could."  
  


"Do you _want_ me to?"  
  


"I swear Eames, this is part of the reason we didn't have sex. _Yes_ , I want you to."  
  


"That's all I needed to hear, darling," Eames says as he starts stroking Arthur to full hardness.  
  


" _Hnn_ , yeah." Eames' hand speeds up slightly and Arthur's breath hitches. "Christ. I thou-thought that you were, _oh fuck_ , going to suck me off."  
  


"Yeah," Eames breathes out. He licks up the underside of Arthur's throbbing cock, dragging his tongue over the swollen head and drawing out a low moan from the point man.  
  


" _Eames_ , please."  
  


Eames, always aiming to satisfy, takes Arthur into his mouth.  
  


" _Oh_ , shit." Arthur bucks slightly, but Eames holds his hips down and continues taking him in. When he's as far as he can go, he pulls back and uses his hand to stroke from the base. " _Eames_."  
  


"Hm," he acknowledges as he goes back down again, speed picking up. Arthur bucks again, trying to get further into the heat of Eames' mouth, but Eames continues holding him down, his fingers creating bruises on his thighs.

"Eames, please, let me, _ah, I need_ …"

Eames pulls off, resting his lips on the head and licking at the slit. "What do you want, Arthur? You want to fuck my mouth? You want my lips and tongue to make you come?"

" _Yes_ ," Arthur breathes.

The forger quickly swallows his hardness down again, gaining speed much faster than before. His hand still twisting and pulling at what he can't reach with his mouth. The other hand gently cradles and rubs Arthur's testicles.

"Eames, shit. _Nng_ ," Arthur gasps. "Good _, so good_."

Eames pulls back, and goes down. Pulls back. Goes down. He drags one finger over the muscles of Arthur's hole, just pressing the tip in and pulling it out.

"Oh, fuck. Close, Eames."

Eames speeds his hand up, but continues licking at a leisurely pace. He twists his tongue over the head of Arthur's cock, lapping at the pre-cum gathered there.

"Oh _God_ , fuck, Eames _, gonna come, gonna come_ ," Arthur mumbles, gasping for air. His knuckles are white as he clenches the sheets and pulls them from the corners of the bed.

The forger pulls off and quickly jerks Arthur. "Arthur," he whispers, "do it. _Come_ for me, darling."

Arthur gasps and twitches as he falls over the edge, bursts of white clouding his vision, his cock spurting onto his stomach and Eames' hand. " _Eames_."

Eames strokes his stomach as Arthur catches his breath and comes down from his high.

" _Jesus_ , Arthur." He climbs up and presses a kiss to Arthur's lips, tangling their tongues together and letting Arthur know how good he tastes.

Arthur glances down at Eames' obvious hardness when they pull apart. "You're hard," he mentions.

Eames laughs. "Anyone would be, with a show like that."

"I want," Arthur breathes against his lips, "to see you touch yourself."

"Oh God." Eames' hand rapidly unbuttons his pants and pulls his cock out, jerking it quickly, so hard and so close already. "Arthur."

  
"That's it," Arthur smiles. "That's it, Eames."

  
"Fuck, you're gonna make me come if you keep talking, darling."

  
Arthur laughs. "That's the point. I want to see you touch yourself. I _want_ to see you _vulnerable_. I _need_ to see you come, Eames. Are you going to do that for me?"

  
Eames kisses Arthur, teeth clashing and too much tongue and a string of saliva connecting their lips when they separate. It isn't even close to perfect, but Arthur moans greedily and that's more than enough to make Eames' cock jerk in his hand.

  
" _Yes, yes_. 'M close."

  
" _Eames_." Arthur glides his hands down the other man's back, drawing a sigh out. "Go faster," he orders.

  
Eames picks up his pace, his hand sliding effortlessly over his slippery cock, his thumb collecting the pre-cum at his tip and adding that to the slickness.

  
" _Arthur_ , Arthur, Arthur, oh fuck, _please_ , I need to come, _ah_ , I need, I need…"

  
Arthur sucks his fingers into his mouth, and replaces Eames' hand with his own. Eames grunts and pushes into Arthur's thigh.

  
"That's it." Arthur sucks gently on Eames' earlobe. "Come for me," he rasps against his ear.

  
Three more quick jerks has Eames shuddering against Arthur's thigh as he comes, groaning low in his throat, his eyes squeezed shut and his face pinched in euphoria.

Arthur kisses him as he relaxes and wipes his hand on the bed sheet.

  
" _Christ_ ," Eames mouths. His fingers are creating patterns over Arthur's stomach.

  
"Yeah," Arthur agrees. "That counts as sex, right?"

  
Eames contemplates this. "I think. Not _sex_ sex, but some form of it."

  
"Do you think it would count as our first?"

 

"I don't know."

  
"I don't either."

  
"If we don't know," Eames starts.

  
"Then it doesn't count," Arthur finishes.

  
"We'll have to try again sometime," Eames propositions.

  
"Yeah, I'm okay with that."

  
They shake on it.

* * *

The third time is the charm, or so they say in a perfect world.

  
Eames and Arthur are far from perfect, however, and their lives follow suit, so it's more than plausible that instead of partaking in a "hot and sweaty fuck-fest," as Eames so politely puts it, they instead come together in a cacophony of swears and sweaty bodies.

  
And not in a good way.

  
"Bloody hell, Arthur. You don't need to _manhandle_ Litlu Mig."

  
Arthur stops touching him. "Did you seriously name your penis, _"Mini Me"_ in Icelandic?" Arthur looks thoughtful. "Although I suppose if you dressed it in atrociously bright paisley it would look almost _identical_ to you."

  
Eames playfully slaps Arthur's head. "Are you saying that my dick needs a costume before you do anything with it?"

  
"No," Arthur laughs, "I'm saying that if your dick was alive, it would be impossible to tell the two of you apart."

  
"I'm not a dick!"

  
" _Mhm_. Okay."

  
"Shut up," Eames pouts.

  
"Do you want me to continue?" Arthur asks as he starts stroking Eames again.

  
"You'll kill me, dear."

  
"I highly doubt that. I'd feel guilty for partaking in necrophilia."

  
"You have, _yeah_ , the worst dirty ta- _ah_ —" Eames is cut off as Arthur wraps his lips around the head of his cock, and swiftly pulls him into his mouth. " _Bloody Christ_."

  
"I hope not," Arthur mumbles around a mouthful of cock. It sounds more like, " _Ah mmph mmp_."

  
It feels amazing to Eames. And _that's_ when things really start changing for the worse.

  
Eames thrusts into the wet heat of Arthur's mouth, the head of his cock grazing the back of the point man's throat.

  
Arthur gags, not expecting the sudden jerk of Eames' hips, but continues sucking. Eames cards his fingers through Arthur's hair, guiding him further down his cock.

  
" _Mrmph_ ," Arthur shouts, eyes wide. Eames gasps and tightens his grip.

  
Arthur chokes and frantically pushes at Eames' hips, lifting himself off of his dick. He then promptly waves Eames away and dashes towards the bathroom. Hacking noises drift out of the small room.

  
Eames stands up, a worried frown on his face, and pulls his underwear back up. He walks over to where Arthur is, curved over the toilet and still gagging, and places his hands gently on his shoulder.

  
"Hey," he whispers. "You okay?"

  
Arthur gives him a feeble thumbs up. "Yeah, yeah. I apparently have more of a gag reflex than I originally thought. I'm fine. Just…I don't think it would be smart for me to continue blowing you," he tells Eames sadly.

  
"Don't worry about it," Eames tells him gently. "I'd rather you didn't throw up all over Litlu Mig," he jokes.

  
"Oh, the poor thing," Arthur smiles. "Sorry."

  
"Want to fuck, instead?"

  
Blood rushes to Arthur's cock, and he sucks his lower lip in, letting it slip back out with a small, wet sound. "Yeah."

  
It's easy to get back into the spirit of things after some making out and fondling.

  
"I _really_ want to fuck you," Eames whispers.

  
"Okay, yeah. Please."

  
Arthur lies back on the bed, spreading his legs apart for Eames' access. Eames' breath catches, and he kisses Arthur, a sweet, short thing that leaves both of their lips tingling. "Suck," he orders, moving his fingers by Arthur's mouth. Arthur draws them in, hollowing out his cheeks and lathering the digits as much as possible, his tongue creating patterns over the fingertips. Eames' mouth is open slightly, his eyes glazed over. He removes his fingers out and traces around Arthur's entrance.

  
"Eames."

  
He slides the first finger in, watching in rapture as Arthur's facial expression changes. He waits for Arthur to loosen and relax, and curves his finger.

  
"Oh fuck," Arthur pants. " _More_."

  
Eames quickly adds another finger, feeling Arthur's walls clench around the intrusion. "Fuck, you're tight, darling." He adds a third, waited for Arthur to adjust and spreads them slightly. Arthur writhes underneath him. The tip of his finger grazes over Arthur's prostate and he watches in fascination as Arthur gasps loudly.

  
"Oh God, _oh God_ , Eames. _Fuck_ , please."

  
"I bet," Eames says, still curling his fingers against Arthur's prostate, "that I could make you come just like this."

  
"Pr-probably," Arthur stutters.

  
Eames speeds up the thrusts of his fingers, making sure to hit the prostate each time. Arthur shakes beneath him, sweat glistening on his face and chest. He pulls Eames toward him and attaches their lips together. He plunges his tongue next to Eames', curling and rolling them together. He teases the roof of Eames' mouth and swallows down the forger's groan.

  
"Close, _close Eames_ ," Arthur says against his lips.

  
Eames' fingers twitch and that's when his hand tightens up in a familiar way. He draws in a sharp breath. "Shit." His fingers still.

  
Arthur growls. "Don't stop. Don't stop, Eames."

  
"Shit, _sorry_ , wrist cramped." He pulls his fingers out and moans in pain. "Oh, fuck." He cradles his hand. "I didn't wait long enough."

  
" _Eames_."

  
"Yeah, ok." He awkwardly slips his left hand around Arthur's cock, and just five strong pulls has Arthur coming over his hand.

  
" _Oh_."

  
"Ow," Eames mutters.

  
"I don't think I want to have sex."

  
Just then, Arthur's phone buzzes.

**  
  
From: Dom  
To: Arthur, Eames, Ariadne, Yusuf  
Sent at 8:26PM** __

_Job in India in three days. Spread the word._

  
"Why does he automatically assume that we're going?" Eames asks.

  
"Probably because we always do," Arthur answers, putting his pants back on. "I'm going to head back to my apartment."

  
"No sex?"

  
"I'm tired."

  
"Excuses, excuses."

  
"Goodbye Mr. Eames."

  
"Goodbye Arthur."

  
He watches the door shut, sighs, and walks towards the shower to finish masturbating under the water.

  
Just because Arthur won't have sex with him, doesn't mean he has to have blue balls.

  
He's not that masochistic.

* * *

"I want sex," Eames tells Yusuf three days later in India. Yusuf is pouring things into a pot of boiling water and mixing them together with a concentrated expression.

  
"I'm _not_ helping you with that. Call Arthur or something."

  
"Yusuf, I can't do that," Eames says sadly.

  
"Why not?" he wonders as he measures out something that looks similar to cinnamon into the mixture. "You're sleeping together, aren't you?"

  
"We are…sort of."

  
"Sort of?"

  
"I don't remember."

  
"You don't remember."

  
Eames throws him an annoyed glance. "No. We were drunk the first night, and every night since then has sucked. Kind of."

  
"You were drunk?"

  
"Would you stop repeating everything I say?"

  
"I'm just repeating the important parts. I want to make sure I have the right information when I tell the others about this," Yusuf grins.

  
Eames shoves his head into his hands. "I _swear_ to God, Yusuf, if you ever tell anyone what I'm telling you, I'll inject you with your own drugs, torture you out of a dream, and kill you in real life."

  
Yusuf nods. "Yeah, sure, what happened with you and Arthur?"

  
"I _just_ want sex," Eames frowns.

  
"Is he not putting out? Arthur isn't a slut, or so I tell myself."

  
Eames narrows his eyes. "What makes you think he's a slut?"

  
Yusuf holds up his hands in a calm-down manner. "I'm just saying. The fact that he's even _attempting_ to sleep with you shows how low his standards are. What do you have on him?" Yusuf jokes, grinning.

  
"Well," Eames says, "he _did_ choke on a sausage the other day."

  
Yusuf chokes as well. "Pun not intended?"

  
"What pun?"

  
"Oh, _Jesus_. No wonder your sex life is so screwed up. Does he call you ' _Daddy_ ' as you pour candle wax down his back and beat him with chains?"

  
"We haven't gotten _that_ far."

  
"Wait," Yusuf tilts his head. "Have you or have you not had sex with Arthur?"

  
"Once, I think," Eames concedes. "We get really into it, you know, with the kissing and biting and, _fuck_ , that thing he does with his tongue—"

  
"—I don't need the _details_ ," Yusuf interjects.

  
"But, yeah. No, we haven't. He's very threatening in bed."

  
"Oh, I get it now," Yusuf nods understanding.

  
"What?"

  
"Three things. First, it's obviously Arthur's fault. He's demanding and threats can be scary things when inhibitions are lowered, like during sex. Secondly, Arthur's fucking _scary_ when he wants to be. It's probably a subconscious thing on your part. And last, try this." He shoves a spoon of dark brown sludge towards Eames' mouth.

  
"Oh Christ. That's _food_? I thought you were making a new drug."

  
"It's macaroni and cheese, Eames," Yusuf replies blandly.

  
Eames sniffs the spoon. "What is that?" He points to a dark chunk that hasn't been dissolved completely.

  
"Allspice."

  
He tastes the concoction, despite not seeing one macaroni noodle, his face morphing from confusion, to horror, to just plain distaste. " _Bollocks_. That is absolutely _wretched_. Please, Yusuf, if you do die during this job and are reincarnated, _don't_ follow your dreams to become a chef. Not even the worst person in the world should have to endure _this_ as torture."

  
" _Ha_ _bloody_ _ha_ ," Yusuf glares. "You're a dick."

  
"Arthur told me that same exact thing during pre-sex."

  
"I'm starting to think that the lack of intercourse in your life isn't completely Arthur's fault."

  
Both men sob, Eames with sadness at the thought that anything could be his fault, and Yusuf in glee with the realization that his pasta tastes un-fucking-believable.

* * *

"You haven't slept with Eames?" Ariadne asks over a cup of the best coffee in the world. She whimpers as she takes another sip. "Did you know _Dom_ made this? Isn't it _superb_?"

  
Arthur tastes the dark drink and shrugs. "I've had better, honestly. And I have, I'm sure of it. Does it count if your ass doesn't hurt the next day?"

  
Ariadne actually considers this. "One, just because you're not sore afterwards doesn't mean it didn't happen. Some people are gentle and caring—" Arthur has visions of Eames checking his ass the morning after. "—and two, why do you assume _you_ were on the bottom? You seem like a top, to me."

  
Arthur grasps Ariadne's shoulders. " _Thank_ _you_."

  
"I think I might get it."

  
"Yeah?"

  
"You don't like the loss of control. You like the idea of sex, because sex is amazing," Arthur nods in agreement, "but you don't like the idea of losing control."

  
Arthur tightens his lips. "Maybe. Eames is a dick."

  
"Obviously," Ariadne rolls her eyes.

  
"He won't shut up during sex."

  
"I thought you haven't _had_ sex."

  
"You know what I meant. He's so fucking violent and shoves things down my throat and makes up excuses to keep me from orgasm, _and_ _he's_ _just_ _a—"_

  
"— _Mhm_ ," she says noncommittally. "God, Arthur, have you seriously _tried_ this coffee?" Ariadne shudders and makes a noise that could almost be constituted as a tiny orgasm.

  
Arthur pauses in his rant. "You _really_ want in Dom's pants, don't you?"

  
"In his pants, his dreams, under his skin. I want all of him _in_ me and _on_ me until all I'm breathing is _him_ ," Ariadne tells him wide-eyed.

  
Arthur pushes his chair back a bit. "Seriously? _Dom_?"

  
" _Eames_? Seriously?"

  
"Point taken."

  
"I really want him," Ariadne says again. "I want to have babies with him."

  
"You don't like kids," Arthur reminds her.

  
"I don't like other people's kids," she corrects. "Who's to say that I wouldn't love my own?"

  
"And who's to say that isn't complete bullshit?"

  
Ariadne scowls. "Perhaps I should be reconsidering this."

  
"Hey," Dom's voice drifts through the open door. Ariadne and Arthur turn.

 

"Never mind," she mouths at Arthur. "Yes?" she says sweetly to Dom.

  
"How is the coffee?"

  
"Good, great, fantastic, thank _you you'reamazing_ ," Ariadne sputters.

  
Arthur rolls his eyes and thinks about facepalming if it weren't so blatantly cliché.

  
"Good, that's good," Dom says cautiously. "I wanted to talk to you about the architecture of the job. We may have to change a few things."

  
"Yeah, okay, I can do that, just gonna go into a dream with you and create beautiful things. _That_ _sounds_ _great_."

  
Arthur slams his head onto the table.

  
"Yeah, okay," Dom pulls out his now vibrating phone. "Shit. Gotta take this. The nanny's calling."

  
The door shuts behind him.

  
"I feel like I just got vajected by a child," Ariadne says bitterly.

  
" _Vajected_?" Arthur mouths.

  
"Vajected," Ariadne repeats. "The female version of cockblocking."

  
"Were you really considering having sex in front of me?"

  
"I'll need to figure out a way to get his kids out of the equation," she continues, oblivious.

  
"Sometimes I wonder why we're friends," Arthur says blandly.

  
"We're not going to be friends anymore if you don't help me get rid of his parasites," Ariadne tells him plainly. "You need to stop wasting your time groveling over Eames and his obvious dickishness and assist me in getting into Dominick Cobb's pants. You're my friend. Act like it."

  
Arthur nods glumly and takes another sip of Ariadne's coffee, hoping to figure out what she finds so amazing about it.

  
Instead, he gets a face full of a snarling architect. " _Mine_ ," she says, possessively holding the cup to her chest.

  
Arthur mutely nods, and promptly goes back to feeling sorry for himself.

* * *

"We need to talk."

  
"Oh bloody hell darling. Are you breaking up with me?"

  
Arthur frowns. "No, no. Just…we should talk about this."

  
Eames grimaces. "Is this the part where you say, 'it's not you, it's me'?"

  
"I wasn't _going_ to say that. I was going to blame _you_ all the way," Arthur says honestly.

  
"Oh, that's funny," Eames points, "because _I_ think this is _your_ entire fault."

 

"How the hell is it _my_ fault?" Arthur spits bitterly.

  
"Do you have any idea how _demanding_ you are, darling?"

  
"If you'd give me what I want, I wouldn't _have_ to be. And you act more like a jerk in bed compared to any jerking you _actually_ do!"

  
"See? That right there! You incorrigible! You do realize that when you cockblock me, you're also cockblocking yourself?"

  
"I don't need you to get laid," Arthur says evenly.

  
"Then why bother?" Eames replies just as calmly.

  
"Maybe we should take a break."

  
"Maybe?"

  
"We should. This _isn't_ working. I just need...I need _space_ , Eames. _This_ ," he gestures wildly, "isn't working."

  
"Fine. Whatever you want, _darling_ ," Eames insipidly says.

  
Arthur is silent. "…Yeah, sure. Sorry."

  
"Yeah."

  
Arthur's jaw twitches, and he turns on his heel and walks off without another word.

  
Eames' fist slams into the wall. " _Fuck_."

* * *

"Can you hand me the mustard?" Yusuf requests.

  
Ariadne slides the bottle over to him. "What are you making?"

  
"Brownies," he says, like it should be obvious.

  
" _Brownies_? What the hell kind of brownies have _mustard_ in them?" Ariadne asks because _that_ should be obvious.

  
"It's not actually in the brownies. It's part of the frosting. It's supposed to give it a natural spiced flavor." Yusuf smells the batter, and nods to himself. "It's like those chefs who put herbs into desserts."

  
"But they're able to make it taste _good_. I had crème brûlée with rosemary. It was easily one of the best things I've ever tasted, and that includes any dream meals."

  
"I'm going to change your mind, my dear." Yusuf holds out a spoon of the now cooling frosting. "Here."

  
Ariadne looks at it warily and takes a small bite. "This," she chokes out, "is disgusting. _Why_ do you do this Yusuf?"

  
Yusuf glowers. "You and Eames are dicks."

  
"We're realists."

  
"Pessimistic."

  
"Honesty is the best policy."

  
"Fuck you."

  
They both laugh.

* * *

The team sits around a table in the workroom, going over last minute notes.

  
"Yusuf," Eames catches the chemist's attention, "would you be a love and tell the squinty-eyed dickface at the head of the table that some of us want to get out of here before midnight?"

  
"Arthur. How much longer?"

  
"I'm done, Yusuf. You can tell the egotistical foreign jackass that if he wanted to leave earlier, nothing was stopping him since he had no importance to this meeting, anyways."

 

"I resent that, Arthur. I'm a foreigner, too. Ariadne?"

  
"I'm not your fucking middleman."

  
"…Ok."

 

Dom grimaces. They think. He might be just looking normal. "You two really need to fuck and get it over with."

  
Everyone else in the room gasps. Yusuf snaps his fingers. " _Oh no he di-int_."

  
" _Oh yes he di-id_ ," Ariadne answers.

  
"Fucking American wanker."

  
"Bullshitting British bastard."

  
"Oh, _alliteration_. Does poetry make you feel less alone at night?" Eames bites.

  
"I hope this job fucks you over, Eames."

  
"I'm sure _you'll_ be the one to make that happen." As soon as the words escape his mouth, Eames knows he's gone too far.

  
The room is silent. The chemist and architect look very uncomfortable, and Dom looks slightly guilty.

  
"What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?"

  
"…You know what it means."

  
"No, _Eames_ , I don't. Educate me."

  
" _Eames_ ," Yusuf whispers.

  
"I'm just saying, if you're going to go on a job distracted over something like this, then it's probably going to have a tendency to go like the Fischer job," Eames lamely explains.

  
Arthur swallows. "Dom?"

  
Dom flinches. "You know I trust you with my life, Arthur, but—"

  
Arthur nods. "I see. Sorry. Again." He clenches his fingers, and then turns towards the table to collect his notes. "We're too far into the job to back out. I'll set things up differently so you," he motions to Eames, "will run less of a risk of getting fucked over by me."

  
The quiet click of the door sounds like a gunshot, and is easily the most melancholy sound in the world.

* * *

Anything that can go wrong on the job, does. Eames and Arthur only speak when absolutely necessary, to each other and everyone else. Their mark is sick, so the dream structure is shaky to begin with. The projections are on full alert due to Dom's projection of Mal, which is only there for a split second, but it's long enough for Ariadne to notice and glance at her feet. Arthur curses and shoots Dom.

  
Things only get worse when Eames is found and tortured out of the dream. The shell of his body, riddled with gashes, amputated fingers, and a sucking chest wound, remains slouching against the wooden plank he's nailed to.

  
It's a gruesome sight, and Arthur is the first to find it.

  
After willing his stomach to settle, he turns the corner, sees Ariadne, and nods at her.

  
"We need to get out. It's not safe for us to go any further."

  
"It's not your fault."

  
Arthur shoots her, and then himself.

  
When they awake in the basement, Eames is already gone, Dom is sitting worriedly in his seat, and Yusuf looks confused.

  
"I need to find Eames," Arthur tells the group, uttering the words softly.

 

Ariadne stays behind to explain the situation to Dom and Yusuf.

* * *

Arthur ends up at the apartment, rain pouring and soaking through his suit, causing his lanky frame to shake.

  
He's not sure if it's just because of the cold, though.

  
When the door opens, Eames isn't as disgruntled as Arthur expects, and that right there is what causes the tears to well.

  
He launches himself at the forger, attaching their lips together with a ferocity that scares them both.

  
" _Sosorry fuck forgivemesorry don'tleaveme thoughtIlostyou_ ," he mouths against Eames' neck. He swiftly undoes the button on the other's pants, and palms his growing hardness.

  
Eames groans and gently pushes Arthur off of him. "Arthur, stop." Arthur bites at his neck and begins sucking, his tongue soothing the wound. " _Darling_ , you need, _Christ_ , you need to stop."

  
"I need you. _I'm_ _sorry_ ," Arthur's voice breaks. He pulls away and looks at Eames.

  
"Hey, it's _okay_."

  
" _No_ , I fucked you over. You were right. I'm so—"

  
Eames holds his finger to Arthur's lips. "Don't you dare say you're sorry. _I_ fucked up. _We_ _all_ fucked up. The situation was fucked from the beginning. You can't blame yourself," Eames comforts.

 

"I can still _smell_ it," Arthur whispers.

  
"What?"

  
"Your blood, death, the natural smell of _you_. _I can't get it out of my mind_."

  
Eames kisses him. "I'm right here. I promise. I'm okay. I'm alive. I'm real."

 

Arthur squishes his eyes shut and tears leak out the corners.

  
"Use your totem, darling."

  
Arthur fumbles as he pulls out the loaded red die, and he tosses it onto the table.

  
He sobs when he sees the number, and collapses against Eames' chest. Eames rubs soothing circles into his back.

  
"I'm sorry I was a demanding ass," Arthur apologizes.

"I'm sorry I was so full of myself," Eames responds.

  
"We're both pretty stupid, huh?"

  
"And forever will be," Eames agrees. "We both have things to work on."

  
"But we can do it. We're Arthur and Eames. We don't give up."

  
"No. We don't."

  
Arthur presses a kiss to Eames' lips. "To us," he mouths.

  
"To us."

  
They don't have sex that night, instead choosing to lie pressed together under the covers of the bed, both tracing patterns onto each other's skin.

  
They're not prepared for the next day, but they're prepared to face it together.


End file.
